


Flowers In Your Hair

by khon_su



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hanahaki Disease, I'm SORRY I TORTURE THEM, Science Fiction, Tragic Romance, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-25 18:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15646377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khon_su/pseuds/khon_su
Summary: Two months ago, Han Jisung failed spitting flowers from his lungs. On the verge of his life, he left a confession directed to his leader; Bang Chan, who's now fighting against the demons of guilt and self-abhorrence. When Changbin is tired enough to see his 'family' struggling, he finally unveils his biggest secret in hope his brother will heal from the pain of loss. Chan quickly learns that there's still a chance to see Jisung again.





	1. Oblivion

 

> _**”I love you.”** _

Every breakfast he takes is the embodiment of sorrow: a discarded beer and an outdated honeyed toast. Since the confession left his friend’s lips two months ago, his nights drag on a solstice, an apogee of darkness that grows within every heart of men, though his version is unlikely new—a collection of surreal poetry and blackened highlights on music notes. He’s abused by each culmination, killed by the memories of the past, rendered by the ticking time. His friend walked away without a word of complaint, but his confession rots his mind and soul like the decaying of iron. In a deathbed of one close mate, he encountered his first blighting: the way his heart corrupts with the flow of guilt and resentment for neglecting details in life.

 

> _**“I love you.”** _

The words ring again with the spoiled warmth of Jisung’s lean fingers that went trailing the leader’s prominent vein, his inner furnace radiating more heat. His flowers were feral fire, the petals smeared with crimson and the thorns cut through the bone. When he released them, everyone went rigidly solid; drawn closer to the fear of losing a brother. As the illness gnawed him from the inside he confessed, a direct exposure to his fatal endearment that grows along the disease, crushed by death at the end of his fight. He had set himself on fire, but he didn’t burn. _“I love you.”_ Jisung whispered, selfishly clinging to his righteous consideration. _“Even when I have to bring this love to the end of me.”_


	2. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chan believes in the power of nine. When one pillar goes down, the entire tower falls to the ground. Changbin tries to fix that mindset. Even with one pillar missing, they will prevail the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first part of the story. Enjoy, peeps.

 

 

 

> _**Chapter 1** _
> 
> _“To love is always the work of two, not one.”_

 

The expanse of the demons’ influence has been extended by the presence of Jisung’s lost flowers, handed thoroughly by Minho after being extracted from his journal. Despite their corporate, subdued color, they hold faint fragrance; a gentle diversion from what he’d call a forlorn passing. The unfurled petals bear specks of black tint, or what must be the tiny sight of dried blood, forever imprinted as a reminder of how painful it was to restrain them by force. For once Jisung’s face flashes in Chan’s mind; a boy of nineteen whose life was nourished by unsullied joy and promising future, the vision of him hoping around the training room as he sang along the rhythm of ‘Awkward Silence’ stays in his head longer than it’s necessary. Even being underneath the haze of alcohol doesn’t help.

Chan’s drinking game is furious. He doesn’t bring the bottles to dorm, for he’s afraid of the youngest witnessing such extreme sadness. Woojin and Hyunjin are often the ones who take him home, and Chan’s never pleased by their good intentions. Nine days after the silent funeral, Chan broke Hyunjin’s nose with his fist and the occasion took a heavy toll on their good friendship. His immaculate features are now bent sideway, a once flawless visual now torn by the impact of his leader’s unstable rage. Chan tried apologizing but the dancer remains distant, his body tensing every time Woojin drags Chan from the pressure of booze.

“I’m afraid of you.” Hyunjin says, slowly learning how fear makes his voice tremble and his face ashen. “You are . . . so cheerful on stages, yet the sadness is killing you. And it’s killing us too.” His words immediately catches the leader off guard, his untainted crystallized ire thaws altogether with the constant flow of realization. He scoops up the darkened faces of his brothers, once set alight with fraud grins during the filming of their latest reality show, now hardened like unwavered stones left abandoned. They’re clearly fatigued by their efforts in enlivening the recording session, cracking down on their despair at the mention of Jisung’s name, entertaining everyone with their long lost internal jokes; Jisung’s wit in every saying. None of them is genuinely happy; the dark circles and the weary expression they wear now scream all the torment they’ve gone through. In the end, Chan makes no fuss. At the sight of Seungmin’s bleary eyes and the noise of Felix’s sickly cough, he swallows down the rising demurral. And for once everything tastes like a betrayal, like a lover whose love is cheated for a stranger unknown.

That night, Chan dreams of the past, a vivid mind calling forth the name of fear. The day; _Tuesday, December 17th._ The snow had lost the ambient of early fall, freezing and paling his skin in contact. In the swirl of white, the world is washed anew, the chill of winter fondling against the warmth of his heart as he stood on the expanse of a green field flecked with streaming clouds. They ran towards each other; Jeongin’s holding the ball, laughter erupting as high-pitched rumbles. Despite their bluish lips and their coursing cold fingers, December 17th was absolute perfection. Jisung was there, of course, chasing Hyunjin with his body lurched forward like he was about to topple him down. Early in the morning, Jisung forced the leader to excuse his ‘common cold’, denying the truth that his cough had gone more severe than it had ever been. When Chan put a hand on his small forehead, he was utterly warm. Jisung backed away quickly, as if it was an act of reflex. _“I’m fine,”_ He insisted, stifling up another cough. _“Please, take me with you guys. I’m lonely here.”_ How could his eight brothers resist a whiny squirrel who wished badly for a taste of fun? Chan thus allowed him to play, in condition that he had to retreat when his fever went up. Jisung excitedly agreed to the terms and followed Changbin, who already had the ball with him. It was the small collision amidst the game that made the leader went madly frantic, although the result was merely a scrape on Jisung’s knees. He leaned closer to the fallen rapper, checking his fever, his fresh wound, his entire being. The boy went frozen, his chest began to rise and fall with a nasty rasp before he coughed. By convoluted degrees the fit winded high in intensity, and the noise started to fall horrendous, as if his airway had been closed up with a single choke. Chan strived to rub Jisung’s back but Changbin swatted his hand away, and he was taken aback by how lethal Changbin’s gaze was. The jubilation he shared while enjoying the game had evaporated, leaving his eyes lit with customary temper that burnt like ember. His twisted view of exasperation grew palpable, as if Chan’s concern had offended him so bad that he might be imprisoned for crossing a line he didn’t recognize. It was an extremely brisk eye contact, but the picture of Changbin’s solemn eyes begged to linger. He knows something he doesn’t. _He knows it all._

Ever since December 17th, Chan nurtured suspicion towards his closest friends. It felt bitter to be an outcast, but the thought of forcing his rights to understand their secrets sounded like the doom of their finely-built friendship. Thus he endured everything, turning a blind eye on them, until the day he eventually lost one gem in the sea of morbid awareness. And there was _nothing_ he could do to _bring him back._

* * *

“Chan-hyung, are you okay?” Seungmin shouts from outside the bathroom, his voice a perfect blend of fright. He’s chilled to the marrow—the leader’s sure—but he himself is fully distracted by the fraught mess in his stomach. His flesh is thoroughly seared, like he has eaten ignited coals for his late dinner. His throat smulders as the bile climbs up in attempt to find an exit, and when it does, Chan hacks, white hands gripping the porcelain bowl, clawing for an aid—a mercy. The alcohol is fuming and the hangover is infused, he is tucked into consequences of destroying his body.

“Please answer, Chan-hyung!” Seungmin hollers again, the captain’s name cracks upon vocalization. His soft knocks turn violent, and soon, he is banging on the door. _I’ll be alright, don’t worry._ The reassuring words are already on the tip of his tongue, and it will be freely spilled if only another wave of nausea holds back its interference. _Maybe this is how it feels like to fall ill;_ to suffer. To drown when the water rises. To run when everyone stays. To hit the ground when you fall. To suffocate in the ecstasy of love. To be Jisung. To be Han _fucking_ Jisung. The pain is so unforgiving that Chan eventually weeps, his feverishly hot forehead leaning against the toilet after getting rid of his pathetic waste.

Not long after, Seungmin drops to silence and Changbin enters the bathroom. He shuts the door close behind him, a silver thing beaming against the buzzing lamp overhead; a spare key. Chan’s head lols to the nearest wall as he scoffs, “You know where I put that,” Changbin nods quietly, his façade a mask he displays on stage—a definite show of measured aggressiveness that cooporates ideally with his chiseled features. “I spend most of my nights with you, Chan-hyung. Writing lyrics, producing songs.” _With Jisung._ The leader snorts at the memory of the three expressing heartfelt rap lines for their song; Zone, their laughter going frenzy after realizing that Jisung had purchased them the wrong coffee. “What is it, Binnie? Please don’t question me of my condition since I’m feeling much better,”

Changbin crouches closer and Chan eventually meets the rapper’s glossy eyes, his lips pursed to cease the snivels. The clear manifestation of his sorrow is enough to sink the captain’s heart to the bottom of a trench. “Let’s quit this, Chan-hyung. I don’t want you to be miserable. I want Hyunjin to fear you no more. I don’t want Jeongin and Seungmin to be traumatized. Jisung’s passing is enough to hurt—“

“Stop,” The whimper that flees Chan’s chapped lips is almost inhuman and Changbin’s words cease to nothing but deep silence. “Please, can you all understand that Jisung’s death is my fault? I’m the one to blame, I’m the one who can’t return his feelings—“

“It shouldn’t be that way, Chan-hyung.” Changbin seizes Chan’s hand firmer than it should be, his spleen lives through the amount of power he unleashes. Chan winces at the sudden strike of pain, his jaw clenched so hard that his veins might pop. “You can’t return his feelings because you had no idea what was going on. Jisung wanted to keep his illness by himself, and it has nothing to do with you.”

“You don’t know how it feels like,” The leader’s lean fingers are curled into fists as he feasts upon hatred, his mind damaged and ruined by Changbin’s rationality. “You don’t know how it feels like to be the source of his pain, the cause of his death! You don’t understand that!”

Something clicks as the rapper grits his white teeth and Chan’s ears perk up. Everything befalls so quickly; Changbin—already having his fists ready—punches the wall next to Chan, the paint cracking underneath the tension. The captain sees the flames, flickering like dying torches before the first teardrop falls, streaming down his cheek like a gentle creek amidst the trees. “But Jisung was happy!” Changbin lunges forward and grabs the leader’s collar, his wet eyes piercing cold. “You don’t know that he was happy because you’re an ignorant fool. He was happy living with love, and he was glad he loved you. He cherished the flowers deeply, he ignored the pain, he admitted the joy. The happiness he had when you smiled, when you laughed. When you hugged him, when you praised him. He kept you close, closer than you imagined. Those little moments were way more important than the illness itself. He loved you so much that he dared to disappear for it. And his love stays. And you shall _not_ forget that,”

The two stare at each other, longer than they’ve expected before it smites Chan; feral and cogent. The undisciplined memories of their moments together haunt him like a ghost; Jisung’s cheeky smile, Jisung’s puckered lips, Jisung’s wide eyes—every day he spent with rejoicing, even when the flowers broke his ribs and seared his lungs. He doled out the misery by sewing a reassuring grin, his ailment nothing compared to the happiness of his family, his eight brothers, him; the love that took his breath away. _‘I am grateful,’_ Minho said during the funeral, his throat parched and his voice a disoriented arrangement of wailing. _‘He said that to me a week ago. He is grateful of his life.’_

Changbin’s clutch on Chan’s collar loosens and he pulls the leader into his embrace as the captain whines; a bleak, desolate sobbing of someone who has been struck by the bitter declaration of truth. “I . . I’m terribly sorry,” For a moment, the void gap strips him away from layers of maturity, lying the child within him bare. With his face entirely buried in Changbin’s shoulder, his body shaking from the vibration of woe, and his breath hitching against his cry, his act of apology turns plainly harrowing. “I’m sorry that I hurt everyone, I’m sorry that I make you all suffer. I just want to see him again, I just—I can’t live like this, I can’t—“

Chan feels Changbin’s chest rattles with a sigh. He releases the older with another sigh, and sighs again—like he’s considering an option that exceeds the line. His eyebrows are furrowed; he’s in deep thoughts. “Here’s a thing, Chan-hyung. I think . . . I think I can heal you. I’ve been thinking of letting you aware of this since a month ago. I think with /this/, I can fix you,” The rapper says nervously, his gaze wandering wild to seek for a spot to stare at. He avoids the leader’s curious eyes on purpose, for he’s left bereft of courage to value honesty. Chan doesn’t see such surprise coming. He props himself up, gulping more air to ease his disarrayed wheezes, “What is it?”

Changbin pales at the question and sighs again, “I keep a secret . . an impossible yet unmistakable secret,”

Chan focuses on him, his curiosity welling up swiftly like wolf’s while drawn to the scent of prey. “What is it? I don’t get it. We’ve been friends for years and you’re keeping a secret? What did I miss? I even know your most embarrassing stories in the agency’s toilet.” The leader contemplates further and when he lands on one surmise, his voice rises. “Are you taking me to a doctor? Do you really think I’m mentally ill?”

“Just shut up,” Changbin tries to keep his irritation from erupting. The effort in it is shown through the fluctuation of his cadence. “Now, relax. I’ll show you, because I can’t put them in words . . . “

“Binnie, you’re scaring me. What is it . . . ?” The leader purses his lips, agitation creeping from the edge of his cold feet, making its way up to his head. The view of a serious bandmate always sparks a chill down his spine. Changbin sighs; for one last time. By the time he leans closer to the leader, his tight fists are unfurled. Something in his eyes tell Chan that he has braced himself for it. “I really hope you’ll let go of your sadness after this. I’ve located him, and you’ll come to him.”

“What—“

“I’ll see you on the other side,” As Changbin touches Chan’s warm temple, the world spins. Everything turns into a blur, and that blur slips away from existence. Torn, with the slightest fragments of hope, Chan feels his body plummeting—far, far, far away, into the infinite range of darkness.


	3. Temptation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something unusual about the way this world rotates, even the gravitation feels wrong.

 

> _**Chapter 2** _
> 
> _Your pain is nothing compared to the medication I take._
> 
>  

_Where am I?_

The noise of glorious streets chimes and the exotic view of tangerine sky blasts in. His feet are onto the solid work of men, harvested bricks painted to mimic ashpalt, a dull monochromatic patchwork against a beautifully-colored sky that expands wide like a vast ceiling. Dizziness hits Chan hard and he staggers helplessly—bumping onto the shoulder of a plain woman with her warm chocolate hair braided thoroughly. She stabilizes him with one strong grip, her small lips—polished with coats of gloss—shifting. Through the haze of a long _“journey”_ , he can only make “okay” and “pale” and “sick” and “home”, and the rest of her words stride fast like they’re never articulated.

_Where am I?_

The last thing he remembers is Changbin in the bathroom. And then, this; the afternoon sunlight seeps through the cider clouds, a road winds up ahead over a short hill, leading to smaller restful shops and stalls. Behind him, the woman walks away after being dismissed, heading to a town of rectilinear buildings and well-manicured garden. A distinct voice beckons him to move forward, but he leaves his focus entrapped in a prison called confusion. The air of this place fleets with sophistication for it speaks of refreshing tea and filtered coffee, but the pressure is dense—its gentle breeze whispering an alert for his atypical presence. His natural instinct screams a rebellion against the voices in his head, scraping for his attention. Chan heaves a sigh, his body aching from a long trip—but, what trip? He felt the unforeseen fall, the descending steep as he sloped into perpetual darkness, and then nothing; literal nothing. Half of the memory spent during the strange occurrence is wiped out, locked away as an act of generosity. _“You’ll come to him,”_ Him—who? The psychiatrist? The expert who will undo the ceaseless bound around his heart; to liberate him from the severe heartbreak? Or . . . Did he call his parents? His siblings? God, no. If they discover him in this weakened state, they’ll be disappointed. _It’s okay, Bang Chan._ He breathes carefully, measuring the upcoming exhale. _You’ll find your dorm, and you’ll return home to your new family._ After a brisk consideration, he travels up.

The small shops line in two rows, huddling genial against each other like a supermarket full of fresh tropical fruits. Chan finds the vibrant paints satisfyingly pleasant. The lavish scent of fresh pastries pours out from the seats of outdoor cafés, its embrace warm and animated. As he walks past a bakery, he observes the glass-fronted counter arraying fashionable cakes, memorizing their names; pumpkin spice muffin, earl grey pound, vegan carrot, almond oat cookies, blueberry cheesecake. _Cheesecake,_ Jisung’s most favorite. The thoughts of him begging for dessert makes his stomach churn. The leader swallows the lump in his throat and tears his gaze away, feet marching forth with a pace faster than the earlier.

Chan stops before a pale blue café, its front wall an enormous glass instead of brick sets. From there, he can observe the insides of the shop, where people sprawl around the wooden floor with kittens roaming around them; an animal cabin. The cats are all well-groomed, their fine fur resembling shades in nature; brown of dry leaves, black of midnight sky, white of fallen snow. They slink and prowl as people approach, their curious slitted eyes trained on every bystander. With their claws sheathed and their tail wiggled, they gallop around the corner in glory—climbing small houses and following feline toys. Chan spots two little girls laughing cheerfully as they stroke the head of a tabby, the pet purring at the gentle touch. For one moment, he recalls Minho and his affection towards cats, imagining him to be present here—surrounded by his favorite feline. He can hear Minho’s funny giggle echoing in his head, a small furball on his lap—Hyunjin beside him, Woojin, Changbin, Seungmin, Jeongin, Felix, and . . . _him_ , too. The nine of them having fun like the old days, the air engulfing him buoyantly light. There’s no more of it.

“Sir, are you interested in our cat café?” A voice calls out from his left side, and Chan tilts his head to see the owner. What comes next makes his heart leap to the upper edge of his throat. Standing by the half-opened main entrance is a boy wearing white collared shirt, beige apron, black jeans, and vivid red sneakers—probably summing up the attire of the cabin’s employee. His hair is deep brown with lighter gossamer that stretch from the root down to his purposefully disheveled bangs. The strands are originally straight, but Chan can peek through the curled ends, very likely coming from the work of a flat hair iron. There’s something about his smile; a victorious firework of hospitality, confidence, and merriment—an ideal combination to a lovable staff. He loves it here, clustered in a cabin full of cats, and those eyes—goodness, those _damned_ eyes. Sparkling, full of desires. They’re Jisung’s.

He’s staring into the details of Han Jisung, and the name printed upon his apron says it all.

So, this is what Changbin really mean? _“I’ve located him, and you’ll come to him.”_ This imaginary world that he’s in. The secret . . . The impossible skill, is crafting hallucinations? The illusion is, somehow, genuine. The glass, he touches it. The air, he inhales it. Even the sweetness in the wind, he smells it. Everything is set in place, it’s flawless. Now standing in front of him is a lost company; a rapper to the heart, a dreamer to the soul. Han Jisung.

Or did he just turn back time . . . ? But, no. Jisung never enrolled himself as a café worker—he graduated from DEF Academy and immediately joined JYP. Not long after, he stumbled upon Chan and the two merged themselves as 3RACHA along with Changbin. There’s no way he was thinking of working shifts in a place like this back then. He was busy writing songs and improving his raps. Nothing else matters aside of the future of his musical career.

_This can’t be real. He’s losing traces of sanity._

“A . . Are you real?” Chan stammers and Jisung raises an eyebrow. The odd question certainly makes him uncomfortable. “Sir, are you okay? Do you need a cat to comfort you?” Jisung’s words are wholehearted; he takes the authentic perplexity as a casual joke. The leader gasps quietly at his existence, real—and . . . Is he real? Chan rushes forward to touch his hand, his shoulder, his cheek—he’s real. Jisung’s features wrinkle as an oblivious grimace etches itself upon it. He hesitantly pokes Chan’s rigid shoulder, true concern shimmering in his eyes. “Hey, please. Are you okay?” The captain gawks at the rapper, inevitable questions come flooding his mind as he seeks for a way to solve the riddle. “Are you alive—?” Of course he is, stupid. Look at him; blooming and thriving, entirely in fine fettle. The boy shoots him an agitated look, disturbed by his words. “You might mistake me for someone else. Do you want to come in? Our fluffy kittens can help you.”

In the end, Chan obeys. He was ushered to order a refreshing coffee and exchange sandals to play with the cats as the employees brew his drink. Jisung has come up with the idea of less-acidic beans to deprive any sensitivity, though Chan secretly wants a bolder one, for the acid is what makes the earth’s wonder so appealing. Yet he decides to play along with the mindful choice, refusing to talk of himself much further. The boy ends their conversation with a bright grin before he slips away to the bar, leaving Chan alone in the playing room, looking grim against the jolly, festive ornaments. He perches down on the pale purple mattress and begins to pat the nearest grey kitten curling in her slumber.

 _It’s Jisung._ The leader peers at the boy carefully as he performs the conventional routine to a cup of fine-harvested coffee. The beans are crushed delicately, extracted with iron machines, the liquid served a temptation to its lovers. The boy slants the cup and pour the cream milk, his mesmerizing technique reflected off by the latte’s final appearance. Is this barista really Jisung? The bar he’s working at is pleasantly lean and unsoiled—very unlikely for the rapper to be able to keep the diligence on the table. The leader inspects them—every detail he had missed prior his “death”; blood rushes without consent throughout his body, his skin now colored and vibrant with bits of life. And those meticulous fingers, they might no longer bear the coldness that only belongs to the dead for he’s now utterly human, not a lethargic rag doll waiting for its end.

He doesn’t realize that he’s staring at Jisung so intensely until the two little girls give him a puerile nudge at the leg, their giggle free as birds in a meadow. “Brother, do you like her?” The one with her hair braided refers to the light brown-haired female waitress who stands next to Jisung, her cheeks red from the heat of steam. The waitress is moderately beautiful with her dark-rimmed glasses, but Chan isn’t looking at her at all. He’s too fascinated by the fact that he can see his best friend again, completely alive. He panics when the girls mention the female’s name very loudly. “No, it’s not like that—“ He cracks an awkward smile, pressured by the gazes of the curious children. “Don’t lie! Do you find her pretty, brother?” The short-haired one leaned closer to Chan, her tiny fingers already on his sides. Her shameless mischief is way too much to bear—Chan immediately backs away, his hand put on the floor to prevent himself from falling.

The moment his palm touches the ground, it’s not the bristly sensation of a rubber mattress that greets him. It feels smoother than he expects, like a blanket of satin . . No, smaller. Fur? When an animal-like shriek jumps out from a tiny mouth, everything befalls so quickly. Chan whirls around and the only thing he sees is a grey cat leaping onto his face, her claws grazing his white pale skin. The youthful girls scream in terror as he collapses to the ground—his flesh stings in agony. Something about his careless act reminds him of Minho’s old saying; _“Never mess with a cat’s tail. It will literally kill you for that.”_ And now he’s _dead._

* * *

“Don’t flinch for a second, it might get infected.” Chan squeezes his eyes shut as Jisung dabs a splash of pure alcohol with cotton pads to cleanse the unsightly gash. It bleeds the least of blood, but with the small flow has been stopped, what matters now is the hygiene of the wound. It should be isolated from germs before being covered with some bandaids. The two little girls wept when it happened and their frantic mother came to pick them up. The three of them apologized to Chan, and he provides them a friendly smile, telling the girls that he’ll be alright since Jisung’s taking care of everything. The girls went home relieved.

“Careless me, to stomp on a cat’s tail.” Chan’s laugh is dry and restrained, a low rumble that comes from within his deep throat. It makes him nervous to have Jisung by his side, his fingers warm when they touch his cheek. The dull ache from the wound is nothing compared to the unusual excitement he has—it’s way more overwhelming than the happiness of being accepted to JYP at the first place. The noise that erupts from Jisung is a composition of pity and mischief—mixed to resonate a cackle. He then tears open a bandaid, calculating the position on Chan’s nose and cheeks. “Don’t do that next time, they’re extremely sensitive when it comes to their tails.” Chan doesn’t respond to his advice. He fidgets on his seat, his lips pursed—unsure of how to address the younger. He takes a deep breathe and says, “Jisungie,”

A mistake. Jisung turns at him with a bewildered look on his face, frowning at the informal nickname. Chan’s eyes widen. “Ah, do you want to be a singer?”

Astounded, the boy’s hands retreat to his side after placing the first bandaid on Chan’s cheek. He’s so close that Chan can observe the small details of his face accurately—how his eyes disappear as he serves him a wide grin, the muscle of his cheeks strained and lifted—everything on the boy’s features scream “Han Jisung” so loud that the leader’s heart begins to hammer against his ribcage. Jisung beams so brightly that he takes Chan’s breath away. “Tell me, do I look like someone who wants to be a singer?”

The captain clears his throat, “Well, yeah. You do. Not a singer, though. A rapper?”

“Hm,” Jisung shreds open another bandaid. “You came to our latest trainee showcase?”

 _Trainee showcase?_ Chan decides to nod along, presenting him a simple look of recognition.

“You see,” The boy starts, narrating the highlight of his youth. “I’m a trainee of JYP. We’re going to debut soon, PD-nim told the eight of us. There’s a huge plan coming at the end of the year, but we’re still looking for a powerful candidate to fill in that one remaining spot. They say we’re looking for another trainee after the global auditions and the local casting systems end on July. So, we wait.”

 _Eight. Eight of us._ If this world is real, someone’s missing. Chan tries to grin despite the discomfort. “With whom will you debut with?”

“Let me see . . . the dancer Hyunjinie, Minho-hyung, Felix, the vocalist Woojin-hyung, Jeonginie, Seungminie, the rapper Changbin-hyung and me.”

“Who form the group?”

“Changbin-hyung did. With a little help from me,”

 _There’s no Bang Chan in his story._ Because he’s here, unknown to the eight of them. What’s this? What’s this feeling? It _hurts._

“Hyung, what’s your name? You know mine already because of my name tag, but I haven’t known yours.” Chan’s idle gaze bores at the boy, a glimpse of sadness in it. I know you from the start, idiot. Not from your stupid name tag. “It’s Bang Chan.”

“Whoa, that’s a cool name! Do you perhaps sing too?”

He nods.

“Rap?”

He nods again.

“Oh, oh! Do you produce songs?”

He nods, again.

“That’s great! We should meet up again and talk about our music, Chan-hyung! By the way, the coffee is on me since you were knocked out by one of our tiny beasts.”

* * *

Chan is still smiling faintly when Jisung gives him his phone number and leads him outside, waving goodbyes and all. He’s still smiling when Jisung shuts the door close before him and continues on working shifts. He’s still smiling when a raspy voice greets him.

“How’s it, Chan-hyung?” A man with low-leveled black hoodie speaks up, his voice venting out lower than his usual rumbles. His shadowed face is drunk with fatigue, like he has been spending his crucial days finding a respite to a storm he's dealing with. It’s Changbin, the one who takes him here, who cajoles him into a dreamland. Chan is torn between being happy or mad, thus he determines both and manifests them equally. “Binnie, what the hell is that? Jisung is entirely alive, and he’s still a trainee? He’s working in a café? What the hell is going on—“

“It’s simple, Chan-hyung.” The hooded-rapper interrupts, gentleness sways along his mediocre tone. “The mechanism of the worlds is like driving a car.”

The captain cocks his head, surprised.

“Imagine you, sitting on the driver seat.” Changbin says, his hands busy gesturing things. “You have four passengers inside, one of them sitting next to you. If you want to switch, you’ll switch with the passenger next to you because he’s the closest one among all. He sits next to you because he’ll likely talk to you during the entire trip as a family or friend—which is bounded to you by mutual purposes. And why are you four in the same car? Because you all have the same destination, same spot to drive to. It will be hard for you all to assemble again if you got separated in another car,”

“What was . . That supposed to mean?”

“Similarities, Chan-hyung. I tried to knit a way to the nearest one because the closest often the most similar. But “similar” isn’t equivalent to “same.” Each of them is surrounded by different numbers, though derived from the same equation. In this case, you debut with the nine of us—you created us, you’re our leader. In here, you’re excluded from the team, a stranger unknown. You aren’t even here, I don’t know where you are in this world. Jisung in our world has died, meanwhile in here, he’s still breathing. This is the best match I can provide you, the others are ruination.”

“Changbinie, I’m afraid I don’t get it—“

“It’s my secret, Chan-hyung. I travel through dimensions, and you’re in the other side of our reality. This is the only medication I can give you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is the first time I wrote in AO3. This work of fiction will go by chapters, and I'll try my best to update it regularly. Visit my old trashy works here; mathroyshka.tumblr.com


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